The Middle of the Story
by Bratanimus
Summary: A ghost story that started with an ending, and finished with a beginning. RLNT, Teddy, Andromeda. One shot.


**Rating & Warnings:** PG-13 for talk of death, gross slug activity

**Notes:** Written on LiveJournal for the MetamorFic Moon All Hallows' Moon fic jumble using the prompts day of screams, flesh-eating slugs, horror genre, and a photo of a tree.

**Summary:** A ghost story that started with an ending, and finished with a beginning.

This is a tale that should never have been told.

Of course, I preface said Tale-That-Must-Not-Be-Told with that warning, knowing you will read on anyhow, because you sought out this letter yourself, after all, just as I would have done, were I in your shoes. You can't help your curiosity. I know that about you, just as I know you're allergic to strawberries and that you sleep on your stomach. And besides, none of us can say no to a ghost story. Can we? No, I don't think any of us can resist a harmless little scare.

Be that as it may, don't say I didn't warn you. Even though it's a tale you want to hear, I'm not quite sure you ought to. And I created this letter when I didn't know any better, either, but it's too late now to take it back. Even though I can qualify the forthcoming statements to my heart's content, I cannot shield you from them. This parchment is bound to tell the tale; I made certain of that long ago.

This tale that you're hell-bent on hearing started with an ending, and finished with a beginning.

Confused?

It didn't confuse you when it happened, of course, but it does now, because all you've got are vague images, unfinished sentences, an echo of an incoherent scream just outside your range of hearing so that you can't tell from where – or from whom – it came. The more you wonder about this story, the more agitated you become. No one can possibly tell it just right. No one can explain it. No one could paint the picture vividly enough for you, you think. No one understands, therefore _you_ can't understand. And yet you want to be the first to understand. The only one, perhaps, who understands at all. You don't want to share it. Not with your friends. Not with me, not even ... well.

I can't blame you for that.

You're still reading. If I were to tell you to fold up this old bit of parchment and throw it into the fireplace, would you? Of course not. I know you, and you'd never do that, not when there's knowledge to be gained, not when there's someone to defy. I know you.

I also happen to know that you're standing in the Gryffindor Common Room, almost as tall as you're going to be but not quite, your sweaty palm hanging onto the mantle, your face set in an attitude of studied disaffectedness while other students buzz about, showing off their costumes, rushing back upstairs for one last adjustment, one last slather of makeup or false blood, one more charm to make those teeth sharpen themselves just so.

It's Halloween, isn't it? The mood is expectant and ominous all at once.

That's right, sink into your favourite moth-eaten chair. Avoid the spring in the left-hand side of the cushion and you'll be quite cosy. But you knew that already. I'll bet you didn't know it was my favourite chair, too, although it looks a bit worse for wear now. So do I, for that matter, but death will do that to a body.

No, don't get up. I didn't mean to startle you. You wanted to read this, and we're in it now, so you might as well get comfortable. You've already jilted your friends tonight, haven't you? Somehow they don't understand you, you think. Perhaps. Perhaps not. That's for you to figure out. No one could tell me a thing about it, either, when I sat where you're sitting, even though I was less vocal about my disappointments than you are.

But this tale isn't about me.

It's about slugs. Indirectly.

And about you. Directly.

And about your mum and dad. A bit late, but hopefully better late than never.

So. Shall I start with the slugs? Or with you?

Very good. People are always more interesting than slugs – in my experience, at least.

It began with an ending, for you. Two people were snatched from you before you knew them; and so life as you knew it, before you even knew it, changed for good. I could try to explain why, but if I could there would be no use of anyone wondering why bad things happen. They just do. Things were dark then, and complicated, and the bad guys were very bad, and we weren't perfect.

You, on the other hand, were. And we wanted to make the world a little more perfect, a little less ugly, for you. We had no choice. You meant more to us than our own lives did. Perhaps some people you know have said that it was wrong for two parents to walk willingly into battle with their baby waiting at home. Maybe it _was_ wrong. But I like to think we made enough of a difference in the war that things could turn out better for you, because _you_ were all that meant anything to us. Our deaths were entirely unplanned, of course; but we didn't have much say in the matter when it came down to it.

So, the ending happened. And I helped your godfather take care of something he needed to do. (That's a story for him to tell you someday, if he wants to.) And you were left with your gran, who was very sad. She was all alone except for you. And later on, your first babbling didn't sound like "mama," or "dada," or any of the usual baby things.

It sounded, to her, like "why why why."

As she wondered the same thing herself, she didn't quite know how to answer that. Fortunately, you didn't seem to expect a reply just then as you chewed on your toes.

But back to the beginning-ending. Shortly after I helped your godfather do what he needed to do, I made a foolish choice. A very imprudent decision indeed.

I decided to haunt the house.

Your gran never told you that, did she?

Your mother, who was a very wise woman, tried to talk me out of it. She said our work was finished, we'd done what we'd set out to do, there was nothing more for us to stick our meddling fingers into as far as you were concerned.

But I was convinced. And your mum couldn't bear to be away from me, so she came, too. And thus your gran had not one but _two_ fresh ghosts lurking about, and a baby boy who didn't like to sleep through the night, to boot. I'm surprised she didn't go mad. It was very selfish of me, although you'd think after death I should have known better. But I always took longer to figure things out than most people who know me would've expected. That's just how I am. Was. Am.

So, the haunting of Ted Remus Lupin wasn't pretty. Nor was it even interesting, contrary to popular belief and the opinion of ghost aficionados. No, it was dull, and aching, and redundant, and annoying, and more painful than I'd ever thought possible. To us, and to your gran. She couldn't bear to see us. The wounds were still too fresh, and she was angry and hurting, so she took to leaving the room whenever we were there, leaving you alone, with us. And though we were your parents, we were hardly what anyone would call _fit_ parents at that point, seeing as how we couldn't even change your nappy with our ghostly hands.

And you … well, you were too young. You probably thought our insubstantial faces were toys hanging over your cot, and you reached for us, laughing. But you couldn't touch us. And that was the worst thing of all.

So for weeks your gran stayed in the kitchen while two ghosts hunched over you, providing the fodder for the nightmares you still have. That's where those ghostly eyes you see in your sleep came from, and we are sorry. I'm to blame. That's why you dream of your grandmother screaming in the hallway. Yes, that's her scream you hear in your dreams. She was screaming – and rightly so, after weeks of haunting – for us to get out of her house. It's all my fault. I was stupid and selfish and had to see my boy again. But once I'd seen you I couldn't leave.

So where do the slugs come into this tale?

I'm glad you asked.

As you found out when you were older, your mother and I were buried under that dead Whomping Willow in the country (call me literal, but I couldn't resist the humour of a dead Whomping Willow guarding a dead werewolf for all eternity, and your mum got a chuckle out of it, too). Several times a day your mother and I would hang about over there, to give your gran some room to breathe, so she could feed you, change your nappy, take you for a walk in the pram, hold you. We'd skulk around our graves and listen to the flesh-eating slugs underground (you can hear quite a lot when you're dead). Sometimes we'd just lie there holding hands and wait until we thought enough time had passed, and then we'd go back home, to your home. And the next day we'd return to the graveside beneath the willow for a while and sit there like fog listening to the munching going on inside our coffins. Over and over again we'd do this, like clockwork. Ghosts, I've discovered, seem to like routine, however horrific it may be. Or perhaps it was just me.

At any rate, one day you didn't giggle quite as much when you saw us. You stared into our faces as intently as ever, your wise old eyes changing colours and scouring our faces, recording our every word and expression into some deep recess of your baby brain. You looked so solemn. You didn't reach for us. It was as if you'd given up. You seemed … smaller, somehow. Disappointed.

This went on for weeks.

Your mum tried to tell me but, as usual, I had to figure it out on my own. In the end it was the slugs that did it.

We sat underneath the dead tree with our arms wrapped round our knees, talking and waiting to go back home, listening to the slugs in the graves underneath us gnawing away at our flesh. Your mum said she didn't think there could be much left of our bodies by now, and I agreed.

And suddenly I looked at my hands – my ghost hands – and I really _saw_ them. Hand-shaped wind. Wisps of fingers. The echo of a body. These hands would never pick you up. You'd never ride on my shoulders, hanging onto my index fingers. As you grew, we couldn't play together. Your mum wouldn't be able to teach you to ride a broomstick, and I couldn't teach you to cook. We'd never swim in the ocean together. We'd never hug and kiss your wife, lift your laughing children above our heads.

Life is for the living, after all. And what you needed were people who could touch you.

Your mum and I sat there for a very long time, talking until night began to fall. And finally, at dusk, we went to say goodbye to you.

Your gran, for once, stayed in the room. Angry with us and heartbroken all over again, she cried. So did we, our spirit tears falling like tiny, transparent soap bubbles into your cot, which you tried to catch because they were something new, something unknown that had to be touched and held and put in your mouth. Your chubby little hand tried to wrap itself around my finger one more time, but it caught only air and closed on itself. You shivered.

We went away. We didn't come back.

So your tale began with an ending, and for that I am deeply sorry. Ours ended with a beginning, which was you.

And the middle of the story? Well, you're in it now. You're so, so far from the end of your story. Which means so are we, really, and we can go on and on. And when you have children, you'll know what your strange old dad meant by that.

In a few minutes, these words will fade away. Charms can't last forever, can they? Perhaps, when you fall into bed tonight, you'll dream about this tale. Perhaps you'll see your mother and me in your dream. Trust me, we'll see you.

So, goodbye for now, Teddy. I love you. We both love you, and we are proud of you. You're a fine young man, and I wish I could stand in front of you right now to tell you that you're the best any parent could wish for.

And now I ask you to throw this old bit of parchment into the fire, because it's finished, and otherwise I'll keep talking forever and I want to have something left to say to you when I see you again. Besides, I can see that I've left you rather speechless.

But if you feel up to it, go and get dressed. Catch up with your friends. Go to Hogsmeade. Why not try the Three Broomsticks? Go on, before that Weasley girl gets snatched up by some less-deserving fellow. If she's in the right mood, she might even enjoy a good ghost story.

_**A/N: All reviewers will get their choice of the following: (a) A good haunting by a ghostly werewolf who is so very sorry he's having to haunt you, but he just can't help himself; or (b) A good ghost story from a very much alive werewolf who is so very sorry he's having to scare you with a ghost story, but he just can't help himself. ;)**_


End file.
